Sunday, 20 August 2017


I couldn’t think of a cornier title for this silly post :)

I’ve been home for about three months now, and I have tried my best to avoid getting onto my mum’s nerves. I have been the best of all good girls; being home by 1730h, cleaning house, doing dishes, and keeping my black nail polish off her tea which she insists on having served at 98°C (darn is her mouth lined with asbestos or what), cleaning after our outdoor cat and dusting all 17000sq km of surfaces that need dusting. Even if the intensity with which I hate housework can burn a hole in lead metal. I don’t indulge in any -OH groups except H-OH (water), never go out on Friday nights and I am at her beck and call.

However today she came into my room and found my coffee cup from the previous day on my desk in my room and was livid. Her face took up her concerned mum look as she started to advise me on being ‘responsible’ and not leave used cups lying around.


Trying to keep irritation away from my face that would have resulted in a resting mitch face that would have irked her even further, I started putting together a rebuttal.

Me: Muuuuum! I was going to bring it with me as I come to clean today’s cups!”

Mum: Why didn’t you bring it yesterday? I know you were so engrossed in that phone of yours that you cannot even think straight.

Me: Are you seriously angry about this cup! Really ma! The phone has nothing to do with all this.

Mum: I think we are going to restrict your allowance so you do not have excess money to spend on credit and (points at a crumpled brown food bag) fries. I thought we agreed no junk for you.

Me(exasperated): Ma, I’m seriously trying! I can’t human perfectly! Christ, I didn’t even choose to be human, leave alone female!

Keeping my super neurotic side to myself is extremely hard when someone interferes with my S4
(Sunday sleeping and series schedule), but after ma left, my mind started to wander:

Think back, awesome hoomans, to when you were just a little baby. The default state of human beings: no memories; good or bad, no experiences, no references.

Just blank; hey, you didn’t even know you were male or female ;), and it did not really matter as everyone was nice and made these weird blubbering noises trynna make you laugh.

Oh, if staying young was an option, I’d still be one year old. Because growing up is a trap.

Away from tellytubbies and all the other merry neon and bright colors sported by baby stuff and shows is the reality of shades of grey, sadness, low self esteem and disillusionment, and it doesn’t start in teenage; naah, it starts from as young as 6 years.

Mum dresses you up in a lil baby pink dress every day and you wobble out to meet the kids next door. The look in her eyes basically says ’One stain on that dress and there will be one less messy little girl to clean up after’, so you do not get down and dirty, you watch from the sidelines and cheer  as the other kids in beat down black and brown clothes have fun, rolling in the hay and sliding 500 kilometres in the chocolate-like mud.

As the red eyes bids the golden grass upon which you play goodbye, you run home, to ensure that you ain’t late past the 1730h deadline. You saunter into mummy’s room to inspect your dress for the slightest speck of mud and you notice your physique. You pass that gorgeous tuft of kinky hair atop your head, flawless soft skin, milk-white eyes that are yet to be oxidized to a dirty red by Earth’s polluted winds; and instead of hugging your beautiful self, you notice that broken incisor, and believe that that lil nose is really huge, and you hate that you have a heart-shaped face instead of ovate like Mariam’s in the ‘squad’ (darn it, cliques in girls’ lives really crop up in early ages). 

You also begin to believe that your forearms are fat, your tummy is sticking out and that your hair is too short compared to Dhahabu’s that sweeps her bum in those pigtails. Plus the kids think you are stuck up because you do not play in the mud. 

You sighed.

Thus, you started being shy.

Then mummy barges into the room and pinches those chubby cheeks and yells at you for entering her room. Some emotion grips your chest hard as those cheeks heat up and redden and you run out to cry. 

What emotion is that? Shame? Pain? Guilt? Again, another painful first.

There exist even worse firsts. Like maybe the pervert tending the shamba next door who grabbed you, cast your lil horrified mass over his shoulder and introduced you to the horrors of sex while you were only eight years old. Or the first math or numberwork class where you understood nothing and the teacher asked all the other kids to laugh at you.

At some point, it hits us that we ain't as good in math or science as we would love to be; or as our parents would want. That we are not as swift in basketball or as agile as the gymnasts in our class. That our writing or poetry is not as captivating as Danielle Steel’s or Bukowski’s. We start to notice that our stationary, lunches and holidays differ according to our parents’ or guardians’ financial status, social standing, or level of ‘exposure’. These very factors that make us split into various groups; the cool kids with flashy electronics, accents and money to fund they ridiculous escapades, the middle class that aren’t as rich but command a position in the hierarchy, and there are those who barely exist. Unless in church, of course. Happy are the humble, for they will inherit the earth.

All these things? We never chose them. We did not choose our bodies or families or financial status.

Neither can we ever be perfect because we are all flawsome.

It is both emotionally and emotionally frustrating to try and be perfect according to our significant people’s expectations, because their perfect differs. It is one of the most distinct reasons of stress that slowly morphs into a bottomless depression. It causes us to doubt ourselves, our decisions and our bodies and once more, our self-love takes a nosedive into the depths of the seas.

That feeling of self doubt? Let it go. Enjoy your freedom. Resist the urge to desire perfection, we are all flawsome "

The notion that the most intellectually gifted people are the once who excel in academics is not true in its entirety. However, the most intelligent people on earth are those who manage to reach the peak levels of happiness in their lives. Do what makes you happy. 

Enjoy each day, bizarre phase, each pastry and pizza with all you got. Get that cattoo; get outta the house and indulge in –OH groups to raise your spirits with a buddy. Go to the limits of your personality, that u=is where most thrills sit, waiting for ya.

Besides, the utilitarian principle encourages us to do what makes us happy provided that no one gets hurt. The moral value of our pleasure seeking activities only stops where those around us start getting negatively affected; and that has nothing to do with their sentiments or opinions of our actions.

P.S: For me, emo is not a phase, it is a lifestyle ;)

Cheers awesome humans!